


Probability and Other Useless Notions

by AimeeLouWrites



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, He's such a bastard, I have zero control over where this is going just FYI, I love Xibgar with all my heart, I want to zap him with my squirtbottle, I've upped the warnings to graphic depictions of violence but I don't think its that bad, Oh look we're making friends with Lexaeus :), Oops we're developing a plot, Organization XIII (Kingdom Hearts), Reader ends up as number IX, Reader-Insert, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-08-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AimeeLouWrites/pseuds/AimeeLouWrites
Summary: You wake up on a desolate street in torn pajamas and get about ten minutes to wander around in confusion before being forcibly recruited into the so-called “Organization XIII.”You’re not supposed to be here. Unfortunately, it’s difficult to know why you’re so certain of this fact when you have no memories. What else is there to do but chase the fragments of your past while trying to stay alive?
Comments: 36
Kudos: 44





	1. You Wake Up and It Just Gets Worse From There

**Author's Note:**

> I am. INCREDIBLY stressed right now. Which means I'm doing endless self-indulgent projects like this one. And since some of you like self-indulgent pieces too, I've posted this for you to enjoy. This is a style that's almost completely outside of my wheelhouse though, so don't expect other fics in this style.

You wake up with a splitting headache.

Everything about your waking is wrong. You shift, drawing in a breath of stale air, and feel gravel biting into the soft skin of your cheek. The pain of the headache is there, throbbing red in the back of your eyes, but it feels… hollow. Your whole body feels hollow. Your eyes are glued shut by grit, peeling apart slowly and painfully when you force them open. You have no idea how long you’ve been asleep, but it feels like days.

You see a broken cobblestone road stretch out before you. You’re lying on your side, one arm pinned beneath you, cheek to the stone. The ground feels piercingly cold when you shift your hand, and it’s beginning to seep into your skin through your thin clothing. You may have been asleep for a while, but something, or someone, put you here recently.

Grimacing, you force your arms under you and push up into a sitting position. The world spins in a painful circle around you as the blood shifts away from your head. You freeze, breathing shallowly until the ache ebbs back to a dull throb. There’s nothing but broken stone and decrepit buildings around you—empty, with no sound but the wind and your own pained breathing.

_I should be afraid._

The thought occurs to you suddenly. You _should_ be afraid, waking up in a strange place, with no memory of how you got here. With no memory of _anything_ that came before this awakening, you realize. A particularly vicious throb in your temple nearly sends you back to the ground. You grit your teeth and ride it out, focused on taking in shuddering breaths. You should be afraid, but you’re not. You should remember what came before, but you don’t. There should be someone here with you, you feel, but there isn’t.

There’s just you, alone, and you’ve got to _move_.

It isn’t fear that drives you to stand, slowly and painfully, and stagger away. It’s instinct, cold and raw. Something put you here, unconscious, and recently too. Your clothing is ripped and stained in ways that make you wonder how the skin beneath isn’t torn to shreds. It feels as if it should be torn, a phantom pain sitting on the top of your numb flesh. Something terrible happened to you. Something bad put you there, and it could come back at any second.

Your legs strengthen as you move through the winding streets, taking turns randomly in the hopes that whatever—whoever—hurt you won’t be able to follow. As your legs stabilize, your steps also become quieter, until you’re moving as soundlessly as you can. There’s…something in the back of your head, beyond the pain of the headache. It feels almost like fear, but it’s so quiet and distant that you can barely tell its there at all. It feels like you’re… you’re…

_Dissociated._

The word comes to you in a flash, and suddenly everything makes sense: why your emotions are so hollow, why your body feels like you’re puppeteering it from a distance, why your chest feels so empty. You’re dissociated. The feeling of wrongness and danger only intensifies with your understanding. What did this to you? What was so bad that it drove your spirit from your body?

It is a mistake to wonder.

_Darkness and yellow eyes and pain. Someone is screaming and you’re running, and your hands are full but then they’re empty and it feels so wrong, wrong, wrong. A surge of fear so strong that you’re choking on it. Pain raking down your back, head slamming hard into stone, and—_

This time the pain in your head does send you staggering, nearly falling to your knees until your shoulder hits the cold stone of a crumbling wall. You gasp raggedly, pained noises escaping the back of your throat as you press hard on your temples. The pain consumes you until, like a wave rolling back to sea, it’s no longer blinding. You reel, staggering backward, disoriented by the pain and your conspicuous lack of emotional response to it. _Everything is so wrong._

You force yourself to continue onwards, because what else is there to do? The cold is starting to settle into your bones, sending shivers rattling up and down your spine. You wrap your arms around yourself, eyelids drooping with exhaustion and cold and emptiness, but it hardly helps. Even if your clothes weren’t shredded, they’re not built to withstand this chill. You pass beneath an arch and into a courtyard of some kind, as hollow and decrepit as everything else you’ve seen so far, painted in dim greyish light and deep purple shadows. You head for the exit on the opposite side.

When you’re halfway there, a deep male voice speaks from behind you: “Well now, what have we here?”

You react automatically, spinning to face the speaker, weight shifted onto the balls of your feet, body angled to fight or to run. Your hands move too, one rising into a guard position level with your chest, the other back and slightly away from your body, elbow bent at a shallow angle and fingers curled to grasp… something. Something important, that you’re missing. You can’t remember.

But you don’t have time to think about it, because a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile just a few shades short of predatory is leaning against the arch you just passed under. In a moment of mutual stillness, you take each other in.

His one yellow eye is piercing, and you feel like a rabbit pinned beneath the gaze of a hawk. The other is hidden behind a black patch. His face is scarred, but if his body is too then you can’t see it beneath the sleek black greatcoat he’s wearing. Even his hands are concealed by black gloves. He has no visible weapons, but you feel, deep in your gut, that he’s dangerous.

No, not just dangerous—that he’s deadly.

But is he deadly to you?

Whatever he sees in his own perusal of you, he seems to approve of. The edge of his smirk climbs a little higher, into something like anticipation. He’s still leaning against the wall, posture utterly relaxed, but you’re not fooled. This man is ready to do… something. You can’t tell what. Attack? Defend, if you attack? Or perhaps he’s prepared to catch you if you bolt.

Despite the hollow feeling of dissociation, which you know from experience must be reflected in your expression, he seems to be able to read you like a book.

“Woah, easy there, doll,” he says, pushing upright and holding his hands out in a gesture of peace. You tense at the movement, taut as a bowstring, but stay where you are. At least, until he takes a slow step forward. You can’t stop the two steps you take back, away from him. “Hey, hey, I’m not here to hurt you,” he croons, watching your retreat with a predatory eye.

You don’t know this man, but you can hear the condescension in his voice. He continues to approach, slow and steady. Even if he doesn’t mean you harm, he knows he could hurt you as much as he wants. He’s dangerous. Beyond dangerous. This is a game to him. You feel like a little girl staring into the eyes of a wolf.

You desperately wish there was something separating the two of you. A barrier? No, that’s not it. Something else. Something important. Your headache spikes again, and you have to squint against the pain to keep your vision from blurring. He’s still watching you, reading every minute shift in your expression, every tensed line in your body, as you match his approach with your retreat.

A thought from earlier suddenly returns to you, amidst the throbbing pain. _He doesn’t have a visible weapon._

A weapon! That’s what you want. Your hand is curled at your side, still ready, but there’s nothing there. There should be something there.

“You one of those silent types, or is it just me?” he asks, wolfish smile fixed in place. Everything about him is beginning to read as insincere. “C’mon, I promise I don’t bite.”

Something about that phrase sends a thrill of adrenaline surging through your veins. _Weapon, weapon, I need a weapon,_ you think, suddenly consumed by the need to feel weight in your palm. The headache surges again, worse than before. With a strangled shout you fall to your knees, but only one hand goes to your temple.

The other is busy holding a blade.

The man freezes mid-step, though you barely realize it over your strangled breathing. The pain in your head—it was because of this. This is what you needed. You stand back to your feet, shivering, and the stance you retake feels much more natural with the weight of the blade to counterbalance. He’s stopped staring at you, to busy gazing with a strange expression at the weapon in your hand. You see his hands twitch, his own feet shifting automatically into a combat-ready stance. The tension ratchets up a notch.

Your breath has calmed back into a steady rhythm by the time his gaze returns to your face. It’s so openly hungry that you scramble a few steps back on reflex. Your grip tightens on the hilt of the blade that has put such a horrible expression on his face.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he breathes out, “you are _exactly_ what we’ve been looking for.”

It’s too much. Your instincts scream at you to _move_. Your body is in motion without you directing it, like a coiled spring suddenly released. You turn and bolt for the nearest exit.

The man howls with laughter, loud enough to reach you over the roaring in your ears. Suddenly, impossibly, he’s in front of you, and even as you scramble to stop or dodge you can’t keep yourself from slamming directly into him. The impact drives the breath from your lungs. A hand wraps tightly around your wrist, keeping your blade to a harmless angle, and then suddenly there’s a force beneath your chest and the world is turned upside-down.

Too quick for thought, you find yourself facing the ground, sword arm trapped by his hand on your wrist, one leg pinned by a distressingly strong arm. You realize that he has you slung over his shoulder like a prize catch. In the space of a breath, there’s freezing darkness around you, followed immediately by a white light so blinding that you squeeze your eyes shut.

Survival instincts kick back in and you struggle, gritting your teeth as you pull against the iron grip on your sword arm. Your free leg scrabbles for any purchase it can find, but the black coat is so slick that your bare foot slides right off. It’s like being trapped in the hold of a marble statue, for all the progress you make. Worse, this feels like something you should easily be able to escape, if you had your memories.

“Settle down there, dollface,” he croons, mocking your struggle. You try to open your eyes to glare at him, only to wince and quickly shut them again.

In a louder, sing-song voice, he calls out “look what I found~!”

There comes a series of strange sounds, almost like the rushing of the wind, but you’re distracted from it when the man bends down and sets your bare feet on the blindingly white floor. The stone is surprisingly warm against your toes, or perhaps you’re just that cold. He keeps ahold of your sword arm, not even bothering to dodge when you aim a frustrated kick at him, and suddenly spins you around and pins you to his chest. He holds your sword arm aloft, almost triumphantly, and no amount of squirming gets you even an inch toward freedom.

A strange kind of tension is starting to build in your skull when a different voice, much deeper than your captor’s, speaks from in front of you. “Be still,” he says, not quite cold so much as utterly impassive. “You are in no danger here, girl.”

There’s something compelling about the sheer calm in his command. You find yourself settling down instinctively, breathing hard, eyes opened to narrow slits and directed to the floor. Your captor’s chest is warm against your back. You can feel the slick material of his coat in the places where your shirt is ripped.

“Good girl,” your captor says into your ear, and the sheer condescension makes you try and stomp his foot on principal. Of course, your bare foot does nothing against his boot, and he snorts derisively at your attempt.

“Xigbar,” the other man says, a hint of censure creeping into his tone. You look up, but your eyes still haven’t adjusted. The man just looks like a black-coated blob haloed in white: a blob that’s a whole lot closer than you expected. Gloved fingers brush the bottom of your jaw and you jerk back, startled, hitting your head on the silver accents of your captor’s coat.

“Be still,” he commands again, taking hold of your chin. Your stinging eyes finally adjust, and a tanned face with startling amber eyes comes into focus. One look tells you that you’re not leaving this place unless he says so. Paradoxically, this does more to calm you than any reassuring phrases ever could. You’re trapped. What will come, will come, and you had best be level-headed in dealing with it.

The man keeping you pinned, Xigbar, chuckles as he feels the tension leave your body. “You’ve got a real way with kids, boss-man,” he says in amusement.

The amber-eyed man shoots Xigbar a quelling look before releasing your jaw and turning his attention to the sword that’s still being held aloft by your captor’s grip on your wrist. “A Keyblade,” he says contemplatively.

The word instantly brings you to your knees. Pain explodes behind your eyes and you choke on a breath, going limp. It’s only Xigbar’s arm across your chest that keeps you from falling to the ground. “Woah!” he exclaims, but you can only feel it through the rumbling of his chest. All other noise is drowned out by the ringing in your ears.

_Keyblade. Keyblade. Keyblade._

The word pounds through your skull with the subtle force of a sledgehammer. It’s important. You know it’s important. _But you still can’t remember._ It’s like the pain you felt back in the courtyard, trying to remember that a weapon even belonged in your hand in the first place. There’s something you’re meant to know about your Keyblade and the things that came before this moment. Something close.

But whatever it is, it slips away from you, and the pain does too. As the ringing in your ears dies down, you realized that someone is talking. No, that several people are talking: Xigbar, the amber-eyed man, and a waspish-sounding voice. Your hand is empty, Keyblade gone, but now that you know where to look, you can feel its presence in your spirit. It would come if you called. Exhaustion crashes over you. You realize that your eyes closed at some point, and that you’ve been shifted into a bridal carry with your chin tucked to your chest.

Cold hands suddenly grab your face, turning your head to the left.

“Come now, open your eyes. I know you’re still awake,” says the waspish voice. You force them open obediently, marveling at how leaden they feel. A man with green eyes and stringy blond hair is peering closely at you with an analytical, searching gaze. “Hmph,” he says, releasing your face. “She’s fine. I’ll have to look deeper to see why the—why _that_ word triggered a pain response, but otherwise this is just the torpor of a newborn Nobody. Leave her somewhere to sleep for a day or two and no doubt she’ll have recovered fully.”

Your head drifts back to your chest, then sideways to rest on the shoulder of the person carrying you when they shift their grip.

“Put her in a room and bring her to me when she awakes,” says the amber-eyed man from somewhere to your right.

“Sure thing, Xemnas,” the person carrying you says agreeably. Xigbar, of course. Then the cold is back, briefly, before it vanishes into warmth.

“You know, doll,” Xigbar says conversationally, as if you aren’t half unconscious and utterly unresponsive already, “I’m not sure you’re supposed to be here.”

You’re set on something soft-ish and a blanket is tossed carelessly over you. Gloved fingers ghost briefly against your forehead.

“Rest while you can. I have a feeling this is the last time you’ll have a chance for quite a while.”


	2. The Darkest Hour is Before Dawn, Which is Some Kind of Bullshit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet properly with Xemnas and accept (read: are pressganged into) a position as Hooded Weirdo No. 9

This time, your waking is much more pleasant. It’s warm and you’re lying on something that’s…not exactly super soft, but definitely an upgrade from a brick road. Your eyelids peel apart slowly—how long were you asleep this time?—to see a blank white ceiling a good distance above you. The room is silent, but you think you can make out the sounds of distant voices through the walls.

You groan quietly and stretch beneath the sheets before sitting upright and rubbing the grit away from your eyes. The room around you is as bland as the ceiling: white and gray, with metal walls and a tile floor. There’s a desk and chair in one corner, and a wardrobe in another, as well as two doors. You get up and wobble toward one of them at random, stifling a yawn in your hand. It’s locked, so you sigh and try the other, which opens to a small bathroom that continues the bland theme of the bedroom.

The sight of yourself in the mirror is enough to make you pause for a moment before leaning closer, bracing your hands on the sink. The purplish bags beneath your eyes are deeper than normal, which is strange considering the sheer amount of sleeping you’ve been doing lately. Your eyes are also blank—lifeless, almost. There’s a greyish cast to your skin, and your lips are pale.

You look…dead.

Discomfited, you lean back, turning your attention to your clothes. They’re pajamas, you realize, which explains your bare feet. The thin fabric is torn to ribbons, especially along your back and left side. You twist, looking over your shoulder with a frown as you try and figure out what could have made such precise tears. Claws, maybe? The cloth looks cut, not ripped.

You shiver and shake the thoughts away, remembering the searing pain that such questions brought yesterday. You don’t want to know.

You’re bent over the sink, just finishing a much-needed drink from the tap, when the locked door slams open suddenly and a man yells: “RISE AND SHINE—oh.”

That’s Xigbar’s voice, you remember, straightening up and leaning over to peer out the bathroom door. He’s looking at the bed you vacated with raised eyebrows. “Alright, doll, where’d—” he spots you blinking curiously at him from the bathroom and laughs. “Damn, you’re quiet!” he says. “I’m surprised you’re awake. You sleep like the dead.”

You shrug, drying your hands on your shredded pants.

Something strange curls at the corner of his smirk. He approaches you in four long strides and grabs your jaw with one hand, tilting your head up and examining your eyes closely. You frown but don’t bother wrenching your face away. What would the point be? He’d probably just grab you harder, and besides, he’s not hurting you. Maybe this is important.

Your intuition is proven correct a moment later.

“Can you even talk, dollface?” he asks, pulling one glove off with his teeth and pressing his bare fingertips to your windpipe. You swallow, startled by the sudden contact. As he searches for…what, an injury? Damage? As he searches for damage on your throat, you consider the question. _Can_ you talk? You feel like you should be able to. Your lips are moving instinctively to form words, even if your vocal cords aren’t following suit.

…then again, this man has done nothing but manhandle, insult, and condescend to you in your brief acquaintanceship, so you don’t particularly feel like figuring it out for him. You muster the most insolent expression you can and shrug carelessly.

The look he gives you in response is _delightful_. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smirking

“Hah, well, good luck pulling that on Xemnas if you actually _can_ talk, doll,” he says, rolling his eye and pulling the glove back on. “He’s not a man who tolerates defiance. Speaking of which, come on.” A conflagration of darkness appears in the middle of the room with that distinctive sound you heard before. You stare at it, fascinated, then stumble when Xigbar puts his hand between your shoulder blades and pushes.

“Come on, come on, boss-man is waiting,” he sing-songs, shoving you through. It’s _cold,_ but it only lasts a second before you’re stepping out into that blindingly white place from before. You squint and wonder what idiot designed a lighting scheme to be so incredibly _bright._

“Wielder of the Keyblade,” intones the amber-eyed man from in front of you. Behind you, Xigbar sucks in a startled breath and suddenly seizes your upper arms. You flinch a little, glancing at the amber-eyed man—Xemnas?—before peering inquisitively over your shoulder.

Xigbar huffs and releases his grip, raising his hands innocently. “Hey, sorry, dollface, but last time he said that word you just about had a seizure.”

“Curious,” says Xemnas, approaching you. You look back at him again and are reminded of your thoughts from the first time you met him. Here is a man with absolute power. If he wants you to be in this place, then you’re not leaving no matter what you do.

He stops a few paces away from you. “You are confused,” he states.

You nod slowly.

“You have no memories of your life before you awakened in this place.”

Again, you nod, but you have to wonder where this is going. Is he just going to state the obvious for the next twenty minutes, or is there a point to this ominous posturing?

He pauses before making the next pronouncement in a slow, weighty voice. “You… are a Nobody.”

You struggle to keep your expression from going flat. He did all of this just to insult you? A man who could very clearly kill you with a flick of his finger is using an insult that even a middle schooler would find tepid at worst?

“A Nobody,” he repeats, and this whole thing is starting to feel incredibly surreal. “A half existence. Your heart has been lost, and now you linger in the in-between, in this form.”

Oh. _Oh._ ‘Nobody’ is a specific term? You can’t decide if that’s a relief or not.

Xemnas folds his arms behind himself, still regarding you with an unwavering intensity. Unconsciously, you mirror his posture, meeting his eyes with your own steady gaze. He continues, “everything you feel is a falsehood: an empty echo of the memories of your whole self. You will never again feel true happiness, nor fear, nor want.”

So, your dissociation is permanent in this form? Well, that’s…not too bad. Actually, maybe this is a good thing. You’ve certainly been far calmer and more even-tempered than you think you were before all of this nonsense.

“Unless.”

Your head tilts slightly. Unless?

“There is a way to regain your heart. My Organization—” he sweeps one hand in a gesture around him “—is composed of Nobodies like you. We are dedicated to completing Kingdom Hearts and restoring our whole selves. In truth, we have been waiting on one thing to begin our work in earnest.”

You don’t like the weight of his gaze on you, the sort of cold hunger hiding behind his impassivity. Even without a heart, it makes your stomach twist into knots. You don’t want to hear what he has to say next.

“You.”

Oh. Oh no. The surreality of your situation hits you suddenly. You’re staring down a man who commands absolute obedience by his mere presence in shredded pajamas and bare feet. Your heart is missing, and so are all your memories, and this man, this half-being, is saying that he’s been waiting, searching, _specifically for you._

The feeling of _I shouldn’t be here_ is so strong that it makes you want to throw up onto the pristine, blinding white floor.

If he sees the nausea in your expression, he doesn’t seem to care. He continues: “The blade you wield is the only weapon capable of gathering hearts without destroying them. You will join us, and we will complete Kingdom Hearts, restoring our true selves.”

You _will_ join us, he said. That wasn’t a request or invitation. He _needs_ you, apparently, to recover his heart. And… the others’ hearts too? You twist around to look at Xigbar, feeling faintly surprised when you see that he’s still standing behind you.

He correctly interprets your glance. “It’s all true, doll,” he says seriously, tapping his fingers over where his heart should be. “With your help, we’ll get these back in no time.”

You turn your eyes to the ground, thinking. Something about Xemnas’s explanation doesn’t feel right. You don’t think the _whole_ thing is a lie, exactly, but something feels off about you not having a heart. Something about… your Keyblade. Pain twinges at your temple and you panic, abandoning the line of thought before it can incapacitate you again.

What’s the point in thinking about all of this? There’s really nothing for it. You weren’t _asked_ to join—you were _commanded._ And you have no desire to find out what happens to people who defy Xemnas.

So you raise your chin, look him square in his amber eyes, and nod firmly.

Something that’s _almost_ like a smile curls at the corners of his lips. “Good,” he rumbles. “Tell me your name, wielder.”

Your mouth opens.

Your mind blanks.

You have no idea what your name is.

Xigbar makes a sound behind you as you stand frozen, reeling in the comprehension that you _don’t even know your name_. “Eh, I dunno, Xemnas,” he says. “I’m not so sure she can talk. Even when I was… _escorting_ her here the first time, she didn’t so much as squeak.”

Shaking off the horror of your realization, you raise a hand to your throat and press your fingers to the same place that Xigbar touched earlier. Xemnas is still looking at you. If you _can_ talk, now is the time to figure it out.

“I…” It’s less of a full word and more of a quiet rasping noise, but that simple effort is enough to remind you of how words should feel in your mouth. You cough and try again, whispering “I don’t remember.”

Xemnas considers you for a long moment before humming thoughtfully. “Then tell me the name of your Keyblade instead. So long as it is with you, its name cannot be forgotten.”

You raise your sword arm and look at your hand. _How to do this…?_ You allow your eyes to slip shut, searching for the glimmering warmth of your blade in a space outside of understanding. You tug, gently, and open your eyes to watch it take form in your palm. _What is your name?_ you wonder, holding it out before you. The answer comes in a whisper of sensation, like a featherlight brush of silk on your skin.

“It is my Wordless Aria,” you say aloud, entranced by the knowledge and the elegant shape of your blade.

Xemnas raises a hand and the name of your blade appears in the air, shaped by glowing letters. “Then you shall be called…” The first part of the name vanishes, leaving Aria. An X appears and the letters rearrange themselves to say: “…Xiara.”

The X doesn’t make the same soft, buzzing sound as Xemnas or Xigbar’s names. Instead, your new name begins with a whisper of air between the teeth: Xiara. You say it out loud, and it almost sounds like music on your tongue.

Xigbar claps you on the shoulder hard enough to knock you off balance and you release Wordless Aria reflexively, blinking when it vanishes into something not unlike a cloud of glitter. “Welcome to the club, number IX!” he says, grinning down at you.

Xemnas is already walking away. “Take her to Saїx,” he says, just before disappearing into a black portal.

Xigbar snorts and opens his own black portal. “Sure, sure, what am I, a delivery boy?” he says, using the hand on your shoulder to push you into the darkness. “First thing you’re gonna learn his how to open your own corridors, doll.”

 _The first thing I’m going to learn,_ you think, stepping into the cold darkness. _No doubt the first of many._


	3. You'd Report this to HR, But You're Pretty Sure That's Saix's Department

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet Saix, get a uniform, and discover one (1) polite Nobody in this entire castle.

You emerge from the darkness into an office, where a blue-haired man is working busily at a desk overrun with papers. He glances up, yellow eyes evaluating you in a bare second, before returning to his task. This, you assume, is Saix.

“You must be Number IX,” he says brusquely, opening a desk drawer to pull out a sheaf of paper. “Name?”

You blink, confused, then flinch when he looks up and narrows his eyes at you. _“Name?”_ he repeats with much less patience. He may not have the sheer imposing presence of Xemnas, but he still doesn’t seem like someone you want to piss off.

“…Xiara,” you say, wincing at how quiet your voice comes out. You glance back at Xigbar, hoping for some context or maybe some help, but he merely grins and salutes you with two fingers before disappearing into a dark portal. You stare at the empty space where he vanished in disbelief. He left you _alone?_ Your expression flattens. Of course he left you alone.

Saix writes for far longer than it would take to transcribe a single name before speaking again. “Describe your combat experience.”

“Ah,” you say hesitantly, “I’m…not sure.” When he looks up, you hasten to explain. “I don’t have any memories of…before.”

He exhales through his nose. You feel a little bit of awe at how utterly intimidating he made that simple rush of air sound. “Very well,” he says, still writing, “I will arrange for someone to assess your abilities later today.” He leans over, opens a box next to his desk, and pulls out a bundle of black cloth.

“Put these on,” he says, tossing the bundle into your chest before standing and moving to the line of filing cabinets behind his desk.

Curious, you pull the bundle apart and find pants, a long-sleeved shirt, gloves, socks, panties (you hope a girl picked them out), and an expensive-looking sports bra (you REALLY hope a girl picked it out), all in the same deep shade of black. _Did he mean now?_ you wonder, glancing at his back. He’s still turned away in a very deliberate manner.

Shrugging off a faint sense of unease, you turn your own back on him, strip off your ruined shirt, and wrestle the sports bra on. It fits alarmingly well. You try not to think about it as you shimmy out of your shredded sweatpants and—after glancing back to make sure Saix is still turned away—your underwear. The panties are a little loose, which shouldn’t be as much of a relief as it is. Pants, shirt, socks, and gloves are all pulled on quickly.

“Leave those,” says Saix when you pick your old clothing up to fold into a stack. You reflexively drop them to the floor and stand at attention. He approaches you with a pair of black boots and pushes them into your arms. As you balance on one foot and force the left boot on, he opens the box by his desk one final time and pulls out a bundle of black leather.

“You will wear this coat at all times, IX,” he says, shaking it out to reveal a coat identical to his. Unlike the other clothing, he actually holds this out for you to take of your own volition. You glance up once, meeting his cold yellow eyes, before reaching out and taking it. It’s surprisingly heavy—the leather is much thicker than you thought, especially around the collar and hood. You draw in a steadying breath and pull it on over one arm, then the other. After you fasten the chain, you drag the zipper all the way to the top.

It feels like a prison and an embrace all at once.

It’s also form-fitted to your boobs in a way that, at this point, is just downright creepy.

“This coat will protect you from the effects of repeated exposure to darkness,” says Saix, arms crossed over his chest. You stare at his coat with narrowed eyes, only half listening as he continues on about darkness. The coat is literally tailored _around_ his pectoral muscles. Why. _Why?_

And then he’s brushing past you, toward the door, and you wish you had been listening. Hesitantly, you follow him into a long hallway. He can definitely hear your footsteps and he hasn’t snapped at you to stay put, so he must have said to follow.

You trot along in his footsteps, enjoying the dramatic swishing of your new coat, until he leads you into a good-sized kitchen. The only person present is an enormous man with red hair, who looks like he’s just finished doing the dishes. He glances your way as he dries his hands on a black towel.

“Lexaeus,” says Saix, “this is Number IX. She will accompany you for the day.” And then he turns around and leaves.

 _Well ok then,_ you think, watching him go with mild consternation. You feel a bit like a toddler being passed between unwilling babysitters. When you look back at Lexaeus, he’s watching you with a neutral kind of consideration as he wipes down the sink.

“Nice to meet you,” you say, trying for friendliness. For a lack of any other gesture, you hold your hand out to him.

“Hm,” he says, hanging the towel on a peg before carefully taking your smaller ( _much_ smaller) hand in his own larger one. “Likewise.” He pauses, as if weighing his words, and adds “I apologize for Saix. He can be… abrupt.”

“I hadn’t noticed,” you say dryly, relaxing. With a measly twenty seconds of reasonable conversation, Lexaeus has become your new favorite person in the Organization. Admittedly, Xemnas, Xigbar, and Saix had presented a rather low bar, but it’s still kind of impressive.

He chuckles and it’s like listening to stones tumble down a mountainside. “I imagine he did not tell you much either?”

“I currently have about two hours of memory in total. No one has explained much of anything in that time.”

He rubs the bottom of his chin. “Let us start from the beginning then. I am Lexaeus, Number V.” He looks at you meaningfully.

“I am Xiara, Number IX,” you say, mimicking his introduction.

“Xiara,” he repeats with a nod. “Would you like some coffee, Xiara?”

You blink. “Oh. Ah, sure.”

He ambles over to a cupboard and pulls down two mugs (black, because apparently no other color is allowed), and fills them from a half-full carafe sitting on a warming plate. He puts one mug in front of you, as well as a bowl of sugar and a pitcher of cream, and you both fix your coffees up in mutual silence. The brew is surprisingly good, you discover as you lean your lower back against the counter and take a sip.

“Do you truly have the Keyblade?” Lexaeus asks after taking a long draw from his mug. He’s positioned at a slight diagonal to you, half sitting on the kitchen’s island.

In response, you raise your arm and summon Wordless Aria to your hand. Lexaeus eyes it with a considering expression. “A beautiful weapon,” he rumbles approvingly. “And the Superior informed you of its purpose?”

“To finish something called Kingdom Hearts and restore us from our current states as Nobodies,” you recite. After another sip, you add, “I have no idea what any of that actually means.”

“There are monsters that beset the worlds, called Heartless,” Lexaeus explains. “If you kill the Heartless with any weapon but a Keyblade, the hearts within are lost. With you and your Keyblade, we can send them to complete Kingdom Hearts, instead of simply losing them. Come, I will show you.”

You amble out of the kitchen together, mugs still in hand. He leads you a short distance away to a large, lounge-like area with an enormous wall of windows. Immediately, you can see what he wanted to show you. It would be generous to call it an outline—really, it’s more like a suggestion of an outline. Or, better yet, an abstraction of an object. The longer you look, the more it seems like something that your mind is interpreting as a physical thing for lack of a better way to perceive it.

“Ah, it’s…in the sky,” you observe.

“Indeed,” Lexaeus agrees, amused. He gestures to one of the nearby couches. “Sit. I will tell you what I know.”

* * *

“Well, if it isn’t the sleepy little Keyblade mistress!”

You jolt, startled to wakefulness by a voice above your head. You feel faintly confused as you sit up, rubbing the grit from your eyes and stifling a yawn. When did you fall asleep? It must have been some time after Lexaeus finished explaining things and made you practice using Dark Corridors. That had been a rather tiring lesson.

The big man himself is sitting near your feet, looking behind you. “Axel,” he chides, “she was resting.”

You turn to find a grinning redhead leaning on the back of the couch. His face is uncomfortably close to yours. Discreetly, you swing your feet to the floor and shift closer to Lexaeus.

Axel waves a dismissive hand. “Ah, she’s gotten enough sleep, right sweetheart?”

You narrow your eyes slightly at the nickname and deliberately move even closer to Lexaeus. His description of number VIII earlier had given you some forewarning, but you still found Axel’s false display of emotion off-putting, especially directed at you.

“Hey!” Xigbar’s voice cuts through your glare and you turn to see him striding into the Gray Area. “Well, well, well, dollface got all dolled up!” He winks, or maybe blinks. “Whoda’ thought you’d look so good in leather.”

Axel gags theatrically. “Ugh, Xigbar, gross, you cradle robber! She can’t be older than…” he trails off and you glance back at him. “How old are you?”

You shrug. If you don’t even know your name, how could you possibly know your age?

He peers closer at your face, a thoughtful frown creasing his lips. “Hmm… you’ve _gotta_ be in your teens. Older than Zexion, younger than me.”

Xigbar scoffs, tossing himself down on the other side of the couch. “Teen! As if! No way she’s not in her twenties.”

Lexaeus rumbles in disagreement. “Late teens.”

As Axel and Xigbar get into an increasingly heated argument about your probable age, you ride the waves of dissociation into a trance-like state, staring out the window at the suggestion of Kingdom Hearts in the sky. You’ve yet to meet Numbers III, IV (although technically you have _seen_ Vexen), and VI. You list the Organization members in your head, just to make sure you remember the names and ranks of your eight new co-workers: Xemnas, Xigbar, Xaldin, Vexen, Lexaeus, Zexion, Saix, and Axel. You’re pretty sure you’ve got that right, anyways.

“If you’re all quite finished.”

You blink back to a semblance of awareness at Siax’s cold voice. He’s standing in front of the couch, eyeing Xigbar and Axel. You sit up straighter on instinct. “Good,” he says when they fall silent, attention turning to you. “It has been decided that a proper evaluation of your skills will involve sparring matches with each of us, beginning with Axel and ending with the Superior. We will begin in two hours.”

It takes a moment for the words to sink in. If you had a heart, you’re pretty sure it would be stopping in your chest. Fight… all of them? One after the other? You _think_ that you have some kind of training under your belt, at least based on your instincts when Xigbar cornered you, but there’s no guarantee they won’t just smack you hither and yon across the sparring ring. Xemnas _needs_ a Keyblade wielder, so at least you’re pretty assured you won’t die for any incompetence, but still. It’s not a particularly reassuring assignment.

Axel seems to think so too, if the way he winces is any indication. “Oh, that’s… intense. Are you sure that’s the best—”

“Lord Xemnas made the suggestion,” Siax interrupts with a shake of his head and, well, that’s that.

As the blue-haired man walks off, Xigbar moves close enough to sling an arm around your shoulders. “Ah, you’ll be fine, doll,” he says carelessly. “You were holding the thing right when you summoned it, at least. Must be some _bone fide_ training locked in there somewhere.” He raps his knuckles against your temple.

You shrug his arm off and stand, lips pressed in a firm line. Your hands clench and unclench as you walk over to the bay of windows, looking at Kingdom Hearts without really looking at it. The Keyblade comes to your hand in a flash of light. _Can I do this?_ You wonder, holding it out to the side and feeling its weight begin to strain your shoulder. Eyes shut, you let everything but the weapon in your grasp fade away.

You sink into that same defensive stance you took against Xigbar, one boot squeaking against the tile as it slides back. Something is still _missing._ On your nondominant hand, you think. It’s raised in front of you, as if it should be holding something. Another blade? No, that’s not it. Something… defensive. A shield! There should be a shield on your arm. You roll your shoulders and follow a vague instinct, sweeping your front foot back and putting your sword arm forward instead. Better. Without the weight of a shield on your nondominant arm, you’re more balanced in an offensive stance.

…how do you know that?

Pain glimmers at your temples and you resist the urge to growl in frustration. Must every discovery be accompanied by a headache?

“Remembering something, are we?”

Xigbar’s voice is too close. You startle, eyes flying open, and find your body twisting automatically to level the tip of your blade at his chest. You’re breathing hard, blood pounding in your throat. How long were you focused on the battle memories buried in your skin?

“Woah, hey!” he says, arching his eyebrows as he carefully pushes the Keyblade to a non-threatening angle. “Don’t go swingin’ that thing around, doll, you don’t know what kind of damage it might do.”

Something that’s possibly guilt twinges in your stomach. You dispel your weapon and draw your hands back to your sides, flexing your fingers.

Axel calls from where he’s lounging on the back of the couch, watching you. “Don’t worry about it too much, kid. Sparring is probably exactly what you need to remember.” Lexaeus nods in agreement, which is genuinely reassuring. “Anyways, come eat. Xaldin brought dinner while you were doing… that.”

 _Right,_ you think, falling into step beside Xigbar as he follows Axel and Lexaeus back to the kitchen. _I’ll just figure it out as I go. No problem._


	4. Yes, Team Bonding Here Always Involves Bodily Harm, Why Do You Ask?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xemnas makes you run the gauntlet, even though he probably shouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me, laying on the floor sobbing: Nomura please I'm a scientist I can't deal with your soft-hard magic system what is even happening

Actually, it’s a _big_ problem _,_ this whole ‘figure it out as you go’ thing, because Axel’s element is _fire_ and for some reason when Lexaeus told you this it failed to register as him having control over _actual fire._ And yeah, maybe you don’t have a heart, but you sure do seem to have working adrenal glands if the surge of spine-tingling _something_ you feel as you narrowly avoid getting your eyebrows scorched off is any indication.

“Come on, IX, quit dancing and fight!” Axel calls, grinning as he catches one of his chakrams on its return path. It’s true that you’ve been mostly dodging so far, but what else can you do? If you get close enough to whap him with your blade, he’ll melt your face off.

Frustrated, you stand your ground and wait for him to strike. He sighs dramatically and spins his chakrams, gathering flames before slamming them to the ground and sending pillars of fire shooting up beneath you. Finally, an instinct: you leap, Keyblade flaring as a rush of wind sends you soaring fifteen feet into the air. The fire is dispelled, flames dying to each side in lingering eddies when you land.

“There it is!” says Axel, an eager gleam in his eye. Exhilarated, you dash forward, calling water to the edge of your blade. You strike hard and he blocks, steam erupting where your weapons clash. With a flick of your wrist, you send one of his chakrams flying.

Mistake.

When the other chakram collides with your chest (angled to avoid impaling you), you realize he allowed you to partially disarm him in exchange for an opening. It’s lucky that the hit is hard enough to knock the wind out of you, because inhaling would probably have scorched your lungs. You go flying and slam into the ground back-first, sliding to a painful stop near the edge of the sparring platform.

“Enough.”

Xemnas’s voice comes as a relief. You let your head fall back to the ground, throat straining as you wait until you can breathe again. You’re very glad you had the foresight not to eat much of the pizza Xaldin brought for dinner, or else you’d be horking it up onto the floor right now.

Axel’s hand appears in front of your nose. “Good match, kid,” he says, pulling you to your feet. “I didn’t puncture a lung, did I?”

You shake your head, holding your chest and coughing painfully.

“…cure.”

The word falls from your mouth in a melodic hum, startling you when a bell chimes and your chest suddenly doesn’t hurt. “Oh. Useful,” you observe, patting the singed leather over your ribs. Maybe this gauntlet won’t be so bad for your health after all.

Axel looks as surprised as you. “Huh. Alright, good luck then,” he says, and Corridors up to the gallery. He exchanges a few words with Saix before Number VII summons his own Corridor and steps out on the opposite side of the sparring platform. You shake the tension from your shoulders and walk to your starting point, taking a stance that leaves you light on your toes. Lexaeus said Saix was a ‘berserker’ and though you don’t know exactly what that means, it can’t be anything good.

He draws forth a claymore from the darkness, flipping it backhand, and you wish you’d been wrong.

Xemnas speaks from the center of the gallery: “Begin.”

* * *

More of your magic comes to you in this fight, the most important being a shield that blocks Saix’s searing blue light. He hits _hard,_ but after the first strike you figure out how to reorient in midair, twisting to land on your feet and slide to a stop. It’s really the only thing that saves you, because he’s both fast and strong. You wish desperately for the shield that instinct says belongs on your forearm.

To your credit, you do manage to land a few hits of your own, along with some spells. But you definitely don’t win, or even come close to it. Xemnas finally calls a stop when Saix leaps above you and unceremoniously slams you down into the floor. The sound of your forearm snapping is audible to everyone. “Enough,” he says.

Saix dispels his claymore and returns to the gallery as you lay still, breathing through the waves of pain rolling up from your shattered radius. At least one of your ribs is cracked too, you can feel. Your hand trembles as you carefully inch it to where Wordless Aria has fallen at your side. Your fingers close around it and you pull, desperately, on the magic that had soothed you after your match with Axel.

This time, a full melody bursts from your lips, startling you again. The pain doubles for a moment as the bone is shifted back into position (an unnerving thing to watch) but then it fades to a throb before vanishing entirely. You sit up slowly, feeling your ribs through the thick leather of your coat. Everything seems to have knitted back together.

When you push to your feet, wobbling slightly with vertigo, you realize that Number VI has already taken his position opposite you. Zexion, you remember, and Axel’s words return to you as well. _Older than Zexion, younger than me,_ he’d said when guessing your age. Number VI watches you calmly, one eye hidden behind his wild hair. How deadly does a teenager have to be to retain his place in an Organization like this?

“You’ll have to forgive me, IX. Combat is not my strong suit,” he says. Holding out one hand, he summons…a book? Ah, that’s what Lexaeus had meant by ‘Lexicon.’

You take in a deep, steadying breath and roll your wrists before bringing Wordless Aria to a guard position. “Somehow,” you say, so quiet that you’re not sure the words even reach him, “I doubt that.”

The corner of his mouth quirks.

“Begin,” Xemnas intones, so you do.

* * *

Zexion is an illusionist, which gives him a frankly terrifying amount of latitude in how he can smack you around. Fighting him is less of a test of strength and far more a test of intelligence. You hold out on a kind of vague hope that there’s some anti-illusion magic just waiting to be triggered by instinct, but as he sends you dancing around the platform you have no such luck.

It’s a clumsy error that ends up being your salvation. As you spin, trying to strike three books that are flying at your head from different angles, the sole of your boot catches and you stumble, eyes shutting reflexively. You manage to right yourself, slashing the books away, but there’s a _fourth_ book flying away from your face when you look again, as if it went directly through your head when you stumbled.

_An illusion only has as much power as you give it._

_Oh,_ you think, going still. Then you shut your eyes and charge forward recklessly, boosting your speed with a spell, until you slam directly into Zexion. Both of you grunt in surprise as the impact sends you tumbling off the side of the platform. Truth be told, you had expected him to move out of the way, but apparently your sudden dash was so odd that it took even him by surprise.

You did have a plan though. You open a Corridor back to the center of the platform and land on top of him, one hand planted on his chest to get a sense of his position, and level the tip of your Keyblade at his throat.

“Enough,” says Xemnas, and you dare to open your eyes. Zexion looks surprised beneath you, eyebrow arched, and then… he smiles.

“I did tell you,” he says, chest rumbling beneath your palm. You stand and offer him your hand up, which he takes. He nods to you, slightly. “I look forward to working with you in the future.” You offer your own nod, respectful, and he returns to the gallery.

If you had a heart, you’d probably feel giddy. A fight that you didn’t have to heal from! How novel.

Of course, Lexaeus then takes Zexion’s place and summons an axe that’s wider than you are. You swallow hard, backing up to your starting position. It looks like Lexaeus is going to make up the difference.

“Begin,” says Xemnas, and this time you take the initiative.

* * *

You try for speed with Lexaeus, leveraging your wind spells to land darting blows before retreating out of range. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to do much against his bulk. He’s also faster than you gave him credit for. His axe lands a glancing blow on your Keyblade, which rings like a struck bell, and even a glancing blow from him is enough to send you hurtling all the way off the platform. You inhale sharply, opening a Corridor beneath you, and gracelessly land on your side in the middle of the platform.

Before you can get more than one leg beneath you, Lexaeus strikes his axe against the ground and tosses you into the air with a pillar of earth. Gritting your teeth, you blast yourself higher with a spell to buy some time, spinning as you fight to reorient and land properly.

You never get the chance, because just as you get yourself right side up, fire spell ready on your lips, his axe comes spinning out of nowhere. With no time to block and no leverage to dodge, you can only suck in a startled breath before it hits.

Everything goes black.

* * *

It’s fortunate that Lexaeus is the one who knocked you out cold and not Saix, or you might legitimately have died at the ripe old age of two days old.

You come to after a few seconds, head throbbing something awful as blood drips steadily across your face. You don’t dare open your eyes, but you can feel that you’re not lying on the platform. It takes a moment to swim through the soupy fog of thoughts in your concussed head, but eventually it clicks that Lexaeus is carrying you. He must have caught you before you hit the ground, because an unconscious landing from that height definitely would have broken several bones.

Lexaeus says something, rumbling like a mountain against your side, but it sounds like gibberish. You force your eyes open and watch, distantly fascinated, as his face blurs in and out of focus. Your lips move as you reply, except you have no idea what you’re saying. You should probably summon Wordless Aria. That seems like a good idea. You wave your hand around as you stare into the middle distance.

…why isn’t it working?

Then there’s a blonde head blurring in and out, lips moving as he joins in on the gibberish session. When you don’t do more than stare in fuzzy incomprehension, he rolls his eyes and grabs your face, squeezing your jaw open and pouring a bottle of glowing fluid down your throat. _Whatever,_ you think, rolling with it even though it tastes like moldy limes.

Abruptly, your vision stabilizes and the fog in your head clears away. “Oh, right,” you say, remembering that you actually have to call on your Keyblade to summon it. Vexen backs off as it appears in your hand and you cast Cure, washing away the lingering effects of the severe concussion Lexaeus gave you. “Sorry about that,” you add, patting the big man’s chest.

He huffs and sets you back on your feet. “It is I who should apologize. That was hardly appropriate for an assessment match.”

Vexen mutters something depreciating under his breath. “I would recommend that you avoid traumatic brain injuries for the foreseeable future,” he says with the dryness of a desert, “but unfortunately it’s my turn to attempt bodily harm.”

“Right,” you mutter, bowing shortly to Lexaeus before glancing up at the crowd in the gallery. Xemnas must have called a stop while you were… mentally unavailable. Vexen moves to his side of the platform and you move to yours, casting Cure one more time just to be safe. It occurs to you, as you settle into position, that there’s now dried blood streaked down your face.

 _Ah well,_ you think as Xemnas says “begin,” _too late now._

* * *

You’re pretty sure you’re jealous of Number IV’s shield, which is ridiculous. Beyond the half-understood longing to have your own shield back, though, it really is an effective way to block your attacks. You can’t land a single strike on him with your blade, and your spells (fire and wind exclusively) have to be timed with extraordinary precision in order to hit.

Meanwhile, he’s doing an excellent job of running you ragged around the platform with his ice. You hiss as a jagged snowflake slices a long gash into your hip. Small mercies, he’s at least being careful to avoid hitting you in the head.

Nothing particularly noteworthy happens in this fight, and it ends in a lopsided stalemate when Xemnas finally calls “Enough.”

You give Vexen a thankful bow, both for the help with your concussion and for his consideration in the fight. He offers a terse nod in response before dispelling his shield and returning to the gallery.

You heal yourself once again, noting with trepidation that you’re beginning to feel dangerously fatigued. You can’t even begin to imagine how you must look, no doubt streaked with dried and drying blood, torn and burned and set in wild disarray. _Three left,_ you tell yourself as Number III Corridors down to the opposite side of the sparring arena.

Xaldin is by far the most unknown quantity so far. You saw him at dinner, briefly, and Lexaeus described him to you, but unlike with Zexion the description had been rather bare. He’s big, you note as you back up to your starting position. Not as big as Lexaeus, but still much larger than you. The look he’s giving you is utterly unreadable.

He summons six lances and you try to keep from visibly blanching.

“Begin,” says Xemnas, and you take a fortifying breath before leaping into the fray.

* * *

You discover immediately that using wind spells is a mistake. His control over air is so profound that he laughs outright when you summon one to boost a jump, turning it against you and slamming you into the ground with prejudice. It’s everything you can do to avoid being cut by his lances, never mind landing a blow of your own. The fight ends when he casually knocks Wordless Aria from your grip and pins you to the wall by piercing a lance through your hood.

“Enough,” says Xemnas, and you swear you can hear a trace of amusement in his voice.

Xaldin gestures sharply with his hand, unpinning you, and uses a gust to toss you back onto the sparring platform. It’s not gentle, but it’s also an action with just enough control to come off as considerate. On instinct, you bow humbly to him, gracefully accepting your utter defeat.

“Hm,” he says, and returns to the gallery.

Next is…Xigbar. You feel a strange mix of worry and spite, jaw clenching as the arrogant Number II teleports to the center of the platform instead of using a Corridor. He smirks at you lazily, summoning his arrowguns.

“Good job so far, doll,” he says. “We’ve faced off once before. Let’s see if you can do better this time.”

You flick your hand and grasp your Keyblade from the air, deliberately ignoring his taunt as you quickly heal yourself. The last time you ‘faced off’ against him you made it less than ten steps before being summarily kidnapped. But this time you’re not bewildered and teetering on the edge of oblivion.

This time, you’re going to give as good as you get.

“Begin,” says Xemnas, and you spring forward with spite in the clench of your jaw.

* * *

Xigbar’s combined abilities to teleport and alter gravity on a whim prove to be incredibly annoying. You’ve been doing a lot of wild aerial stunts so far, mostly because none of the others seemed inclined to them except Axel, but Xigbar can send you crashing to the ground with a flick of his fingers. He seems to view the match as a game, an opportunity to taunt you and thwart you at every turn. His shots are utterly precise and also deliberately annoying, or at least you assume its deliberate after the fourth time in a row that he hits your butt.

You miss your shield so much that it trips you up several times when you instinctively raise your non-dominant arm to block an incoming volley. Xigbar laughs particularly loudly whenever you make that error.

You do, however, land several extremely satisfying blows on him. He doesn’t seem much phased by it, even when a reckless fireball scorches right through the sleeve of his coat. His attitude means that he’s not fighting as hard as he should be, you think, because Xemnas calls a halt when you swing Wordless Aria like a baseball bat and manage to knock one of his arrowguns out of his hand, which he responds to by dropping the other, grabbing your waist, and suplexing you.

“Enough.”

You roll out of his grip, stifling a groan. Your back _hurts_ , and so does your butt. You’d guess that Xigbar is the oldest of the Organization members, and yet he acts like the worst kind of teenage boy. Lips pressed into a tight line, you wobble to your feet. You conspicuously don’t offer him a hand up, instead glaring down as you massage where he hit the top of your chest. He grins from the floor and simply makes gravity stand up for him, offering a mocking bow before vanishing.

You huff, calling your keyblade back to your hand. This time when you cast cure, the magic seems to warble sadly and fizzle out of your grasp, leaving an intense nausea in its wake. You stare at the blade, swallowing hard to keep from emptying your stomach onto the training ring. You’re just too drained to heal, which is… not great.

“Number IX,” says Xemnas. You look up, tensing nervously as you realize that you’re going to have to fight him in a moment. You feel like you’re one stiff breeze away from collapsing. How are you going to survive this without humiliating yourself?

“You have done well,” he continues, oblivious to your thoughts. You blink in surprise at the praise, not expecting it from him. The other members are shooting him disbelieving looks as well, and it immediately puts your guard up.

“You learn quickly. That is good, as you still have much to master.” He pauses, looking down on you, and you have no idea how to respond to this. “I will not test you today,” he finally says. “You are dismissed.”

The relief is so profound that it sends bile surging up your throat. You clap a hand over your mouth and drop Wordless Aria, flicking open a Corridor and stumbling through it into the kitchen, where you promptly toss your cookies in the sink. Shuddering, you brace yourself against the second wave, gripping hard on the counter.

You flinch when something cold nudges against your cheek, cracking one eye open to see Lexaeus holding a glass of water. You take it, bracing your hips against the counter to keep the weight off your shaky legs, and rinse the acid from your mouth before taking a proper drink.

You’re not sure what happens next, only that Lexaeus keeps the glass from slipping out of your fingers and shattering when your body finally decides that it’s had enough for the day. Then there’s someone smaller than Lexaeus pulling one of your arms over his shoulders, and Vexen’s voice, grumbling that you shouldn’t have used so much energy so soon after being awoken as a Nobody, and then you’re being dropped onto your mattress, and the light in your room is flicked off.

 _No shoes on the bed,_ you think, and promptly pass out.


	5. Does This Count as Stockholm Syndrome?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vexen lectures you, you go on your first mission, and you're reminded that everything about a Nobody is fake

You sleep for seven straight days, or at least that’s what Vexen tells you when you wake up on a table in his lab. “What… happened?” you ask hoarsely as he begins to disconnect the array of lines and wires attached to various parts of your person. Your back aches dully, probably because the table is metal and has absolutely no padding, but there is at least something beneath your head.

“You burned through too many resources, you nitwit,” he grumbles, looking sleep deprived. “Even before this, I suspected that your initial torpor should have lasted longer than two days. Lexaeus informed me that you lapsed immediately after learning to use Dark Corridors, another sign that my theory was right, and then you fought seven rounds in a row and completely collapsed!” He exhales sharply through his nose, as if your fatigue is a personal failing, before begrudgingly adding: “though I suppose you could not reasonably refuse the Superior’s orders.”

“But I’m fine now?” you ask uncertainly as he begins removing sensors from the bare skin of your chest. You have, at some point between falling asleep and waking up, lost your shirt. Thankfully he had the good sense to leave your bra on.

“No. Or at least, not entirely. I got _several_ anomalous readings from you as you recovered. You are… uniquely unstable it seems.” He sighs in a put-upon way and turns to a computer terminal as you sit up. “But you are, _technically_ , stable enough to begin working, so long as you pay attention to your limits.”

“Oh,” you say as you unfold your coat from where it had been serving as your pillow and pull it on. Your shirt and gloves are nowhere to be seen, but he’d left your pants and boots on. Sensible man. “…did you bring me here?”

He snorts, already occupied with his next task. “Hardly. I’m a busy man, IX. If you must know, it was Zexion who suspected something was wrong and had Lexaeus cart you in here.” The keys click rapidly as he types, speaking in between whatever thoughts he’s recording. “Make no mistake, I kept you here for the benefit of my research. You would have recovered just the same if they had left you where you were.”

Hearing him state his own self-interest outright is oddly reassuring. “Understandable,” you murmur, running a hand over your face and stifling a yawn. “If there’s anything I can do to provide more data, please let me know.”

This earns you a pause and a scrutinizing glance through narrowed green eyes. “Yes… I will.” He turns away again. “You had best report to Saix.”

Accepting the dismissal, you open a Corridor to Saix’s office and step through, shivering without the extra layer of your shirt. The blue-haired man is standing behind his desk, rapidly sorting a stack of papers into several trays. He glances up as you enter but doesn’t stop his work.

_Does this man ever stop?_ you wonder absently.

“I’m… available for work, sir,” you say, stumbling a bit as you search for the appropriate phrasing.

“Save the honorifics for the Superior,” he responds, nearing the end of the stack he’s sorting.

“Of course, Saix.” You note that he seems markedly less hostile to you than he was the first time you were here. What changed? You’d assumed he’d be even more short-tempered, considering you were unconscious for seven days. Maybe he got rid of his hostility by snapping your arm in two.

You consciously resist the urge to rub the point where your bone shattered as he tosses the last paper into its tray. “Now that your skills have been evaluated,” he says, gathering the trays up into a stack and setting them to the side, “you will be assigned missions. Until such a time that it proves unnecessary, you will be assigned a partner for each mission.”

You nod and he continues, opening a cabinet and pulling out a folder and some munny. “You will receive a monthly allowance for clothing and other necessities, as well as an additional amount when it’s your turn to provide dinner. Breakfast is your own responsibility, but some members arrange trading schedules between themselves.” He hands you the file, thick with papers, and the munny, which you pocket with another acknowledging nod.

“Today you will be partnered with…” he picks up a clipboard and skims it quickly, “…Axel. He will take you to Twilight Town for a short mission and then escort you to whichever stores you require.” He sets the clipboard down and crosses his arms over his chest, leveling you with a stare that makes your spine straighten. “After every mission, you will complete a report and submit it to me by the end of the day. The packet I gave you should provide adequate guidance on the standards I expect, but you may ask me questions if needed.”

The look intensifies. “I expect quality in _every_ report, IX. Are we clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Good.” He returns to his seat. “Axel is waiting for you in the Gray Area. Give me your report directly or leave it on my desk by the end of the day.”

You skedaddle as quickly as you can without making it obvious, but he probably still notices. The shiver that rattles across your shoulders has nothing to do with the cold.

You drop the packet off in your room before heading to the Gray Area, where you find Axel lounging on a couch with his hands laced behind his head. “There you are, sleepyhead,” he says without sitting up. “I was starting to wonder if Saix had finally snapped.”

You frown at him, cocking a hip and staying where you stepped out. He said it in a joking way, but you have a feeling that he wasn’t joking at all. Is wanton death really that common, or are they so inured to battle that they simply make light of it?

He finally looks at you, shifting his head to the side and arching a brow. “Man, you really are quiet, Xiara,” he says. “I thought Xigbar was just being…. Xigbar when he described you, but you still haven’t said a single word to me.”

Your frown deepens at Xigbar’s name and you stick your hands into the pockets of your coat—oh, that’s where your gloves went. Axel stands and walks over in the time it takes you to pull them on.

“You’re gonna have to talk to me at some point, kid,” he says, standing in front of you and leaning down to your height, hands on hips.

“Probably,” you agree, and he blinks for a moment before bursting into laughter.

“Yeah, alright, fine,” he says, shaking his head. “I guess it takes all kinds. Anyways, come on, the sooner we finish killing the heartless the sooner we can get you decent clothes.”

“Who chose the ones I was given?” you ask as he opens a Corridor.

“I think Xigbar did actually, why?”

_Eew,_ you think, and it must be reflected in your expression because Axel laughs. “Ooohhh, right, I guess he did have to pick out some girly stuff for you, huh? Downsides of being the first lady in the club.”

“I’m more disturbed that he guessed my size so accurately,” you say under your breath, following him through the Corridor. It’s a much longer walk than normal, which makes sense, since it’s a location not within the castle.

You find yourself at the entrance to a narrow, dingy sewer tunnel. The sky above is red with the setting sun. You can smell the thick, humid miasma of the sewer water drifting over you as it leaks from the tunnel. Your nose wrinkles, but Axel seems unbothered.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Welcome to Twilight Town, where the sun never sets. It’s a world in between darkness and light, hence the whole ‘twilight’ gimmick. Most Somebodies don’t like us—we make their skin crawl just by hanging around, so they usually avoid us. Twilight Town’s a bit off, so you might get more attention here than in other worlds. _Don’t_ make a scene. We’re here to do our work and get out, nice and neat.”

You nod, glancing around, but there isn’t a single other person in sight.

“Should be pretty easy to stay under the radar this mission,” Axel continues in line with your thoughts, “since it’s gonna be in these sewers.” He laughs at your expression. “Better get used to it, kid. Anyways, the heartless here are all bottom-feeders, more or less, so you should have no problem. Don’t expect any help from me, though. I’m just your guide.”

“Of course,” you murmur, summoning Wordless Aria and stepping into the dark. “Wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

* * *

Fortunately, Axel was right about the threat the heartless present to you: none at all. The blobby little shadows only need a solid whack from your blade before they vanish, off to fill Kingdom Hearts. It doesn’t make slogging through the sewers pleasant, but at least you’re not contending with shattered bones today.

Axel trails behind you with a lazy kind of saunter, tracking you through the darkness by the purple glow of your Keyblade. If the battles weren’t so pathetically easy, you might have felt self-conscious, but this feels more like when someone is watching you do laundry. You don’t speak at all, but he throws out occasional comments, like “ooh three in one, nice” or “hurry up kid, I don’t like this any more than you do” or “if you need some motivation just pretend they’re all tiny Xigbars.”

The last one actually does make you speed up, whacking the heartless apart spitefully, and Axel crows with laughter.

After a few hours you reach the opposite side of the sewer system, blinking in the reddish light that streams in from the round grating. “Nice work,” says Axel. “Now for something slightly more pleasant.” As you banish your Keyblade, he opens a Corridor and steps through. When you follow, it spits you out into a narrow alleyway. He leads you out onto the street and down a block or so into a shopping district. He was right about the Somebodies: they give you wary glances and wide berths, but otherwise ignore you.

“Alright,” he says, gesturing to the shops that line the street, “your pick.”

You survey the signs posted above the storefronts and choose a clothing store, eager to find some short-sleeve shirts. Your Organization coat may be decent armor and protection from the darkness (and apparently self-healing, since none of the damage from your fight a week ago remains), but boy is it _hot_ to fight in outside of the Castle’s piercing chill.

A bell above the door chimes as you push it open, Axel on your heels. The lone employee, a teenager, smiles as you enter, though it strains a bit around the edges when he actually takes you in. “Ah, welcome,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything.”

You nod to him and move into the racks of clothes, heading for the ladies’ section. Thankfully, you know your own size on instinct, so it only takes a little while to gather enough pieces for a modest wardrobe. Not everything you pick is black—you refuse—but you do stick to darker tones over pastels. You tally the total cost in your head and check it against the munny that Saix gave you and are surprised to find that the amount is far more generous that you assumed.

_Maybe because I have to buy everything,_ you muse as you make your way to the front of the store. _The monthly allowance probably isn’t nearly as much as this._

The teenager keeps shooting glances between you and Axel as he rings you up, looking nervous. You try to smile reassuringly but he blanches at the expression, so you school your face back into neutrality. Axel is smirking, clearly enjoying the boy’s unease.

“H-have a nice day,” he stutters, handing you your purchases in a large paper bag. Conspicuously, he does not add “come again.”

“Well that was boring,” Axel says dryly when you both step out onto the street. “Let’s go back—” You raise your eyebrows and he pauses. “What, what else is there?” he asks. “You got like, a million outfits.” You roll your eyes and don’t bother to respond, instead turning away and looking for an intimates shop. The selection at the first store had been abysmal.

“Ugh, fine, I’ll sit here until you’re done,” he groans, throwing himself down on a bench like a petulant child.

“Good, you keep track of this then,” you say, setting the bag on the bench next to him. He huffs, curling an arm behind his head and narrowing his eyes to cat-like slits.

“Boys,” you mutter, rolling your eyes. A million outfits your ass—you got like three shirts and two pants plus sleepwear. It’s hardly your fault if he’s a savage who owns one singular shirt.

The employee at the intimates shop, an older woman, is far more at ease in your presence than the teenager was. “Hello, dear,” she says, smiling. “I haven’t seen you before. Do you need a fitting, or do you know your size?”

You pause, thinking, and then shrug. “A fitting, I think,” you say. “I may have changed sizes since the last one.”

“Oh yes, the curse of all women,” she laughs, pulling a tape measure from around her neck and beckoning you deeper into the store. “I’m going to need you to take off that lovely coat, though.”

You do so, draping it over the partition that keeps you hidden from the street, and belatedly remember that you’re missing your shirt. There’s a flash of recognition in the woman’s eyes as she sees the black sports bra, but she doesn’t ask. Xigbar must have come here to buy it.

“Let’s see here,” she hums, quickly and efficiently measuring you. “Yes, what you’re wearing is the correct size. I would recommend a size up for a traditional bra, though. I make most of the items here, so I can also do custom sizing. What are you looking for today?”

“A little bit of everything,” you say, opting for honesty. “I recently lost all my clothes in an accident. I’m… lucky that the man who got this for me correctly guessed my size.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” she says sympathetically. “I can get what you need, unless you’d like to browse?”

“Go ahead,” you say, thinking of Axel waiting impatiently outside. “I’d prefer darker colors and more sporty fits, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, dear, you just wait a moment and we’ll get you all settled.”

You walk out twenty minutes later with another large bag and a considerably lighter wallet. “Come again, dear!” the woman calls after you. You wave before going to drop the bag off with Axel.

He cracks an eye open when you approach. “Done?” he asks. He rolls his eyes theatrically when you shake your head. “What else is there even to get?” He tries to peer into your newest bag of purchases, but you smack his hand away, scowling, and he subsides.

“Just two more stores, I think,” you say, irritated. “Be a good boy and I’ll get you some ice cream.”

His eyes flash dangerously and you regret your words. You’d forgotten, for a moment, that Axel is an assassin in a group that more-or-less kidnapped you, not a longsuffering new friend. You swallow hard and vow not to repeat that mistake. None of these people are your friends. They see you as a tool, nothing more, and you’d best remember that before you get yourself killed.

Axel reigns himself in, slouching back into a cat’s languid sprawl. “You’re lucky I actually like ice cream,” he murmurs. You turn away without a word, clenched fists hidden in the shadows of your wide sleeves, and hurry off to finish your supply run before he ends it for you.

The hard lump in your throat can’t be grief. After all, you don’t have a heart.


	6. The Realities of Being a Hostage/Slave Laborer Are Unpleasant, To No One's Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reality and routine set in. You cope as best you can, but not everyone is happy with your methods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo boy, did I ever get stuck on this chapter. But I did it, thanks to a friend who agreed to stare at me judgementally until I finished it.

At the end of the day, its everything you can do to drag yourself into the shower and remain upright as the hot water pounds against your head.

After returning from Twilight Town, you tried to retreat to your room to organize everything, but Axel stopped you with a hand on your shoulder and informed you that part of your daily routine was meant to involve one-on-one training with your mission partner. He then proceeded to kick your ass across the training ring for a solid hour, leaving you with a nice array of burns to heal. After that you studied the packets Saix gave you, drafted a report, and dropped it off on his desk before dinner.

You hadn’t said a single word as some Dusks delivered the food Vexen provided (a sandwich platter and vegetable trays, apparently the man was a health nut) and no one spoke to you. Maybe they were preoccupied. Maybe you looked too dead on your feet to bother with.

And now you’re slumped into the corner of your tiny shower, forehead pressed miserably against the cold tile as steam billows around you. _I want to sleep for another week,_ you think, dragging yourself upright by sheer force of will and beginning to wash the blood and grime from your body. Everything feels bad, you’re surrounded by enemies, and you’re _so tired._

You breathe in a lungful of steam and let it out slow as you smooth conditioner through your hair, drawing on the deep well of emptiness in you to just… stop _being,_ for a little while. In a vague haze, you shut off the water and step out, drying yourself off and wrapping the towel around your chest before continuing your nightly routine. Goosebumps crawl down your skin when you step from the warm, humid bathroom to the chilly bedroom. Shivering in your towel, you dig through the shopping bags for a long-sleeve shirt and some sweatpants.

It’s early. You’re pretty sure the others will be awake for several more hours before sleeping. But you, dressed in pajamas and sitting on the edge of your bed as you stare in the general direction of the bags that still need to be sorted and put away, are just… tired. Too tired to do anything, even write in the little journal you bought earlier.

_Actually..._

You pad over to the bags once more and pull out the journal and a pack of pens, ripping the latter open and tossing all but one onto the desk. You open the journal to the first page, date it, and in a shaky scrawl write: _Don’t ever forget what they are._

The lump in your throat is painful.

Desperately needing the comfort of oblivion, you go to sleep.

* * *

_“Hey.”_

_You smile at your best friend, swinging your legs back and forth, hands tucked under your thighs. The stone of the fountain is cool beneath your palms. “Hey yourself,” you say back._

_She smiles, but it’s oddly sad. And her eyes…_

_This isn’t right._

_Your heart jolts, just for a moment, before the crisp morning air fills your lungs and soothes away your sudden unease. “What’s the plan for today?” you ask, feet swinging once more. Your legs aren’t yet long enough to touch the ground when you sit like this, but you’re pretty sure they will when you’re grown up._

_“Found you,” she says softly, dropping to one knee in front of you. Dark hair blows about in the wind, loose strands sticking slightly to the skin of her face. “I…I’m so sorry.”_

_That’s not what she’s supposed to say._

_“Sounds good!” you chirp, stomach churning. “We can go whenever.”_

_Her lips twist, trembling. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I didn’t mean to drag the both of you into this.”_

* * *

You wake up the next morning, uneasy but unable to remember why. No one else is around when you shamble through a Corridor into the kitchen, face washed and coat thrown over your pajamas. You’ll get dressed properly later. A few dusks scuttle around cleaning things, but you ignore them as you set some coffee to brewing. You fall gracelessly onto a barstool and slump over the kitchen’s island, cheek to counter, watching vacantly as the coffee dribbles into the carafe at a snail’s pace.

Halfway through the brewing cycle a Corridor opens and you sit up, glancing over just long enough to see Saix before you return to coffee-watching. _So much for relaxing alone,_ you think with a quiet sigh, tucking your feet beneath the stool in the hopes that he won’t notice your lack of boots.

Saix rummages around in the cupboards, apparently content to ignore you. Then his hand appears in front of you long enough to set a black mug by your elbow and you think _or not_. Baffled, you blink and watch him settle against the counter, his own black mug in hand and yellow eyes fixed on the coffee machine.

“Typically,” he says in a low, sleep-roughened voice, “I am the one who starts the coffee. I’m surprised you’re an early riser.”

You shrug after a pause that lasts maybe a beat too long. It feels like you were an early riser when you were whole, but without memories it’s hard to know. “I like the quiet of daybreak,” you decide.

He hums and you swear you can see the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Why am I not surprised,” he says, and the conversation ends there.

You feel unsteady. Off-balance. Saix, capable of a civil conversation _not_ about work? You can hardly fathom it. You would never have dared to say anything at all, but he commented first.

Why?

Your mind flashes back to the sole entry in your journal: _don’t forget what they are._ You turn your eyes to the floor, biting hard on the inside of your cheek until the tang of copper floods your mouth.

When the coffee maker beeps, Saix pours himself a cup and moves away to add creamer. You find yourself unwilling to fill your own cup until you hear the telltale sound of a Corridor opening and closing. A quick glance confirms that he’s really gone. You get up, fix up your coffee with hands that tremble no matter how hard you try to steady them, and retreat back to your room. You don’t have it in you for another conversation right now.

As you change out of your pajamas and into some lightweight athletic clothing, you decide to permanently skip breakfast. Coffee is a good enough substitute and you’ll feel better using the time to warm up before getting your mission assignment. And, ok, maybe you also don’t want to deal with jockeying for space on the stove or arranging meal swaps with the others. Maybe just a little. But it’s fine, coffee is fine, you’re fine, and avoiding your problems every once in a while is also fine.

For a lack of anywhere else to go, you open a Corridor and step out onto the sparring platform in the Hall of Empty Melodies. Shedding your coat, you jog a few laps around the platform before settling down to stretch. Sleeping for so long was hell on your flexibility, you discover. It takes two minutes of holding each stretch before you even begin to feel limber. It’s lucky your mission yesterday was so easy, or your stiffness would have caused all kinds of problems.

You stand, shaking your joints loose, and summon your Keyblade. It chimes softly as it appears, almost in greeting. It’s warm in your hand, eager to… play? That doesn’t feel quite right. Wordless Aria isn’t sentient, but it does seem to have a spirit of its own. You wonder if the others’ weapons are like this.

 _Alright,_ you decide, shaking the errant thoughts away, _let’s play._

* * *

When you report to the Gray Area for your assignment, you feel calm and relaxed. If you had a heart, you might even have felt happy, but calm is a perfectly acceptable substitute. You find that you’re early, despite the lengthy warmup; Saix isn’t yet present. Lexaeus and Xaldin are though, so you join them where they sit in mutual silence. Xaldin only looks at you coolly as you sit, but Lexaeus offers a nod, which you return. Considering your personalities, it’s practically a hearty greeting.

To your surprise, Xaldin speaks after a few moments pass. “I believe you will be accompanying me today, girl,” he says in a lazy rumble. You blink at him, tearing your gaze away from the window. “I trust you won’t be falling asleep on the job?”

“Xaldin,” Lexaeus says warningly, his ever-present frown deepening.

“Oh, protective already?” the dark-haired man mocks, an odd tilt to his lips. “I suppose she does call to mind the youngest of us, hmm? Quiet little thing, isn’t she.”

Lexaeus narrows his eyes. You glance between the two, baffled by the exchange. You know he’s referring to Zexion, but it was phrased as a barb toward Lexaeus, not you.

“It’s too early for fighting!”

Xigbar’s voice is close to your ear and suddenly there are arms draped around your neck and a chin pressed to your hair— 

You blink, suddenly ten feet away from the other three Nobodies. Wordless Aria is in your hand. Xaldin, Lexaeus, and Xigbar are looking at you with surprise.

You straighten from your defensive crouch and rub your free hand over your collar bone, trying to parse through the dim echoes of feelings in your chest. _Familiar_ and _alarming_ , you think, concentrating on the moment when Xigbar’s arm came down on your shoulders. Someone who meant you harm did that before.

“Twitchy little thing, arent’cha, doll?” Xigbar comments into the uneasy silence.

“…don’t touch me,” you decide, dismissing your Keyblade. You look away, smoothing your expression into neutrality, and move to sit at Lexaeus’s side.

“Hm,” Xigbar says. You can’t bring yourself to meet any of their eyes. No one says anything for the rest of the time you’re there.

* * *

The days blend into each other. You feel trapped, because you _are_ trapped. You desperately wish you could make friends with the others, but every time you begin to relax your guard around them you remember the phrase in your journal, _don’t forget what they are_ , and just like that you lose your words and pull away.

Lexaeus is the only real exception, mostly because he relies very little on verbal communication. Strange though it is, you feel oddly cared for whenever he smacks you around the sparring ring. It’s refreshingly honest. The man’s affection is very…practical. He wants you to survive when you’re out fighting Heartless, and that means pushing you as hard as he can in training.

Not that he ever says as much out loud. He might, if you asked, but you prefer to let it remain unspoken. You spend a lot of time thinking about what Xaldin said to him, comparing you to Zexion. Does he care because you seem young? You have no idea, but you’re pretty sure the sandwiches that keep mysteriously showing up on your bed after particularly grueling missions are from him, and you’re not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The others are a mixed bag. Axel is friendly, but he always comes off as insincere to you, as if you’re a toy that he’s amusing himself with. Saix is…Saix. It’s become his habit to make stilted conversation with you in the mornings, while you both wait for the coffee to brew, but you don’t—can’t—let yourself really engage. Vexen ignores you, unless he needs something or has been assigned to train you. You do your best to patch up your own injuries, because it really _isn’t_ his job. Xaldin mocks you at every opportunity. You don’t think you’ve said more than a handful of words to him because of it. You avoid Xigbar like the plague.

Zexion, oddly, is the hardest to read. He’s unfailingly polite, kind even, but the way he looks at you when you agree to help with one of his experiments… it makes your skin go clammy and your stomach churn. You don’t understand why. He never does anything to make you uncomfortable and there’s never anything overtly wrong with his expression. It just feels like an awful kind of déjà vu.

By the end of your probationary period, you’ve become the Organization ghost. You show up, do your job, train, and vanish with a minimum possible amount of words spoken in that time. Your expression is near-constantly blank. Without the need to have another member babysitting you on missions, you become even less social.

It’s not _nice_ to feel this trapped all the time, but your self-imposed solitude is a good coping mechanism. When you’re alone, you can pretend that you’re somewhere else, that you don’t have a group of psychopaths breathing down your neck for questionable goals. It feels so much safer to be disconnected. It’s just a bonus that, should the chance to bolt ever come, you won’t need to sever any attachments.

Unfortunately, your strategy has begun to annoy some of the others.

“Oh Number IX,” Axel sing-songs as you stuff yourself into the narrow space between a support pillar and the wall. “Come out come out wherever you are!”

You glare in the general direction of his voice, cursing yourself for falling into your Keyblade’s sway and singing aloud as you wandered the lower levels of the castle. You’d thought you were being quiet, _thought_ no one would be able to find you, but apparently not.

“C’mon, IX,” Axel wheedles, the soft tap of his boots coming closer. “Don’t be shy! I already heard you singing.”

You scowl mightily and tuck your face behind your drawn-up knees. Of all the things you _didn’t_ want them to know, at least until you figured out what the hell was going on, it was this. Your spells are so much stronger when you sing them and you _still don’t know why._ Instinct says it shouldn’t make a difference, but it has. You sing in battle nowadays, at least whenever no one can hear you.

The footsteps stop. “Found you,” he says triumphantly. “Quite the hiding spot you’ve got there, sweetheart.”

Reluctantly, you uncurl and peer down at him in the hopes that he’ll go away if you stare at him silently for long enough.

No dice. He just chatters questions at you that you don’t bother to listen to. Finally, you sigh, jump down, and attempt to simply walk away.

“Hey.” He catches your arm. You go very still, watching him from the corner of your eye. His expression is unusually serious. You think back to that moment on the bench, during your first mission. The expression is similar, but you’re not naïve to what he is this time. “You can’t keep this up forever.”

“Keep what up?” you ask in a murmur, dead-eyed. Maybe you’ll go to bed early tonight. You’re starting to feel tired.

“This,” he says, shaking you a little by your arm. “Avoiding us. Pretending. Like it or not you’re a part of this Organization.”

“I complete my missions admirably and in a timely manner,” you respond, still not looking at him directly. “Is that not what an Organization member does, VIII?”

He doesn’t say anything. You stare straight ahead, trying to ignore the heat of his gloved hand on your bicep. You’re not very successful. It’s the first non-bruising touch you’ve felt since Xigbar scared you and the warmth seems to radiate all the way down to your fingertips.

This is just sad. He’s _restraining_ you. Maybe you need to go find a cuddle buddy in Twilight Town if two months of no touch is enough to reduce you to this.

“Fine,” he says, releasing you, and you pretend that all you feel is relief. “Run away as long as you want, Xiara. But you know as well as I do that it can’t last forever.”

The heels of your boots click smartly against the tile as you leave. You pause just before Corridoring back to your room. “Strange accusation,” you say, looking over your shoulder just enough to see red in your peripheral. “What would I have to run away _from,_ Axel?”

When he says nothing, you take your pyrrhic victory and retreat.


	7. Xemnas's Superpower is Conveying Death Threats Through His Eyebrows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Xiara gets called on her avoidance and is startled by the fighting style of a new member.

_ “Hey, —!” The name she shouts is drowned in a burst of static. You whip toward her, beaming, and wave both hands as you bounce on your toes. _

_ “Hi!” you squeal. “C’mon, we’re going to miss it!” _

_ She laughs as you snatch her hand and drag her toward the gathering crowd. Her eyes are empty and doll-like. All around you, the others jerk like puppets caught in their strings. In the distance, the sound of clashing blades is growing. Everyone is laughing. _

_ “Slow down,” she says, holding your fingers so tight that your bones grind together. It should be happy. It’s desperate. “You’ll get lost.” _

_ Someone seizes your other hand. You turn, surprised  _ (this isn’t what should happen) _ and find your own face staring back at you, expression empty. _

_ “Find me.” _

_ This isn’t you. _

* * *

You hold off on “making friends” another month. It’s mostly out of spite, but you’d be lying if you said there wasn’t a healthy amount of dread mixed in. 

Axel is right, not that you'll ever admit it out loud. They're not going to let you hold the Organization at arms length. It makes you dangerous, a loose end liable to bolt at any moment (which, to be fair, you are). Maybe if you were a regular Nobody they'd let you be as standoffish as you pleased, but your Keyblade makes you too valuable to risk losing. So you get it, you do, but spite is your sole petty satisfaction at this point and you’re not giving it up without a fight.

At the same time, the others are becoming more insistent about spending time with you outside of missions. Whether it's an actual coordinated effort or coincidence, you don't know.

Lexaeus is straightforward. “Spar?” he asks, turning up just as you’re leaving Saix’s office after dropping off your latest report. You shake your head and slip away. “Come have breakfast with Zexion and me,” he offers in the morning while you’re pouring coffee. You demur, hastily stepping through a Corridor before he can press the issue. Such requests become commonplace. The man may take no for an answer, but he’s also… remarkably persistent.

Zexion pushes too. “Xiara,” he says, turning a screen toward you, “what do you think of these outliers?”

“Xiara,” he says, “this text is ambiguous. Come give me your opinion.”

“Xiara,” he says, snagging your wrist as you try to leave his lab, “stay just a little longer, I may need your help.”

Zexion pushes and pushes and  _ pushes _ , unlike Lexaeus. Every deflection or noncommittal hum you give is a challenge to rephrase, to reorient in just the right way to coax from you an answer. Like most skills, he quickly excels at it. You start avoiding him more.

Vexen is bluntly self-interested but apparently still participating in the group effort. “There’s a test I need to run,” is how every demand of your time begins. It generally ends with you hooked up to complex machinery or, on one memorable occasion, floating partially-clothed in a tank of blue-green fluid for several hours. He doesn’t bother forcing conversation, instead keeping up a running stream of scientific commentary that only occasionally requires your input. Somehow, your feelings toward him shift from ‘wary neutrality’ to ‘mild but exasperated fondness.’ 

Together, Lexaeus, Zexion, and Vexen are having by far the most success, which...well, you may not be able to stop it, you sure as hell can be salty about it. Saix, Xaldin, and Xigbar, however, are failing quite badly in comparison, which is a bit of a spiteful silver lining.

Saix pushes harder during your morning conversations but he is, frankly, terrible at it. He also assigns more partnered missions, which irritates you enough to negate his morning efforts. Xaldin mocks you relentlessly. How this is supposed to build interpersonal connections, you're not sure, but you’re also not surprised. Xigbar pops up randomly and frequently. You’ve made tossing yourself through Corridors at a moment’s notice into an artform because of him.

Axel sits somewhere between the two trios in terms of success. You never cooperate, but he doesn’t take no for an answer. Ever.

“Xiara, come play poker with us,” he says. You roll off the ledge you were attempting to hide on. He catches you by the boot. “Careful!” he laughs, as if you didn’t do it intentionally, and slings you over his shoulder like a prize catch. Today you sigh and let it happen, glaring at the floor. Tomorrow such manhandling might devolve into a snarling, snapping fight. He seems to view it as a win either way.

You become much better at stealth, simply by virtue of how much effort you put into avoiding everyone. In the end, though, the outcome was inevitable. 

It is Xemnas himself that finally brings a close to your persistent isolation.

* * *

Saix gives out the daily assignments in rank order, starting with Xigbar and ending with you. Today though, he doesn't hand you a dossier or file. Instead, he pauses for a long moment after the others have left on their own missions, face unreadable.

"I have no mission to assign you at the moment, Xiara," he says. "The Superior expects you in the Round Room immediately."

Your stomach drops down to the level of your toes. You’ve never been called into the Round Room alone before. What could he want? You swallow your nerves and nod sharply, turning on your heel and stepping through a Corridor into the Round Room. You drop gracefully into your seat, folding one leg beneath you and letting the other dangle.

“Superior,” you say, looking up at where he lounges in the highest chair.

His gaze is imperious but otherwise unreadable as he looks down at you through half-lidded eyes. “Xiara,” he says in response, tilting his head slightly. “Do you know why I called you here?”

“No, Superior,” you say firmly. “To my knowledge, I have been performing my duties adequately.”

He huffs a laugh. “Adequately, yes,” he agrees with a nearly mocking edge. “And yet, troubling reports about your  _ deliberate  _ isolation outside of your duties have reached my ears from multiple sources.”

Ice slithers down your spine. You meet his gaze, fingertips tingling as you fight to keep your face neutral. Minutes tick by in silence. It’s only when the sensation in your fingers has crawled all the way up to your chest that he speaks.

“Xiara,” he says, silky and dangerous. “Did you truly think I would tolerate such petty defiance?”

You shut your eyes. “No, Superior,” you whisper.

“Then  _ obey me,  _ Number IX.”

Miserably, you bow your head. “Yes, Superior.”

“Good. Return to Saix for your next assignment. And Xiara,” he pauses until you look up and make eye contact, “you  _ will not _ defy me again.”

“Yes, Superior.” You sketch a bow and Corridor away to Saix office, feeling far more shaken than you care to admit. There’s no time to deal with it now though, so you use your brief moment in the frigid darkness to draw on the well of emptiness where your heart should be. When your boots finally hit the floor of Siax’s office, your expression is utterly empty and you feel as distant as Kindgom Hearts.

“Xiara,” says Siax, something strange flashing across his face as he glances at you. Disconnected as you are, you can’t interpret it. You wonder if he even expected you to return alive. 

“Siax,” you respond, voice flat and vague in your ears.

He looks at his computer screen, fingers clicking over the keys briefly before he speaks again. “We have a new member,” he says. “His skills in battle have already been evaluated. Your job today is to take him on a short mission and assess his capabilities in a support role.” He picks up a file from his desk and holds it out.

You take it, skimming the contents quickly. “Very well. Where can I find him?”

“The Gray Area,” he says. Then—and it’s so unexpected that it startles you from your dissociated fog—he  _ grimaces  _ and adds, “unless he’s wandered off.” 

You stare. He stares back. When the silence lingers for longer than two minutes, you shake your head and take your leave. Evidently he has no interest in giving you any additional information. 

There’s a...boy? Young man? Sitting in the Gray Area, legs slung over the backrest, head toward the floor. He looks exceptionally bored until he registers the sound of your Corridor opening. He perks up immediately, twisting upright. You have the sudden premonition that a headache is in your future.

“Good morning, Number X,” you say. “I am Number IX. You may call me Xiara.”

He blinks at you a few times, an oddly awed look on his face. “Wow,” he says, in the kind of tone that tells you the words skipped his brain-to-mouth filter entirely, “you’re  _ hot!” _

You were right. There was a headache in your future.

He has the good sense to backtrack as you close your eyes and take a slow, patient breath. “Sorry, sorry, shouldn’t have said that out loud,” he says with an awkward laugh. “The way Xemnas talked just made it sound like this place’d be a sausage party, y’know?”

“Has Saix briefed you on our assignment, X?” you ask flatly, deciding to ignore his commentary.

“Oh, uh, yeah, yeah. I’m helping you with the heart-thingies, right?”

Heart-thingies. Well, he  _ has _ certainly made you forget all about your painful meeting with the Superior, at least. Maybe that’s worth the irritation.

“Correct,” you say, opening a Corridor. “Follow.”

He scrambles off the couch. “Right, you got it, no problem.” You can tell that his willingness to be cooperative at the moment is entirely a result of his earlier embarrassment. 

Somehow, you don’t think the headache is going away any time soon.

* * *

He startles you so badly in the first fight that you nearly get knocked on your ass by an embarrassingly low-level Heartless. It really shouldn’t have startled you so much, but when he whips out a  _ sitar  _ and starts controlling water simulacrums with music—well, you’ve had to focus so much on suppressing your own urge to do magic through music that seeing him do it so casually knocks your metaphorical feet out from under you.

And your literal feet out from under you.

“Shit!” you curse, rolling out of the way of the Heartless and surging back upright.

“You good, ‘ara?” X calls. 

It takes you a moment to process the sudden nickname, but you snap out a terse “yes” once you do. A muscle in your face tics with irritation. Who is this boy to be so familiar just  _ minutes _ after meeting you? At least the other annoying Nobodies in the Organization had the excuse of seniority.

Even as a Nobody, it’s so easy to turn fear and alarm into anger. You hack the Heartless apart with a little more spite than is strictly necessary.

You’re still upset (distantly, always distantly, without your heart) when the last of them disappear to fill Kingdom Hearts. The tar-like black goo splattered across your coat and face dissolves as you stop for a minute to breathe. Your hand tightens on the hilt of your Keyblade until the leather of your glove creaks audibly.

Number X comes sauntering up, a lazy, crooked smile on his face. “So how’d I do, huh?”

You side-eye him. “Is your medium Water or Music?”

He blinks a little. “Oh, uh...water? The music part just feels  _ right _ , y’know?”

“Hmm.” You stare down at Wordless Aria, willing it to reveal its secrets. Is that why you want to sing? Because it ‘just feels right?’ 

“Can you do it without?”

“Aww come on, my playing wasn’t  _ that  _ bad!” he protests, pouting.

You turn your head up to stare him full in the face. Somehow, you manage to feel like you’re looming over him despite the height difference. He lasts less than ten seconds before he starts fidgeting and looks away.

“Uh, never tried. Let’s see…” He frowns, spinning the sitar in his grip before closing his eyes and concentrating. His fingers twitch restlessly against the instrument’s body. After a moment, a wavering simulacrum takes form and dances in a wobbling circle before dissolving abruptly. His frown deepens and he opens his eyes.

“I guess I can, kinda,” he says. “It felt wrong though. Definitely way less powerful too.” He eyes you nervously. “Do you...want me to stop playing when we fight?”

You look down at Wordless Aria, at a total loss for what to feel about the situation. “No,” you say. It comes out a bit softer than you’d intended. “Come on, we have more hearts to collect.”

* * *

When you hand in your report that afternoon—Number X is capable, but he became lazy as soon as he forgot his earlier embarrassment—Saix takes it and gives you a flat, significant look. He doesn’t need to say anything. Your throat constricts. You take a slow breath in through your nose.

What you  _ want  _ right now is to go down into the lower levels of the Castle and practice your magic. Number X’s performance soothed some of your fear—if his magic is stronger when he casts through music, you must not be so unusual—but raised even more questions. The itch to learn more, to sing for the first time without fearing the impulse, is nearly overpowering.

But you haven’t forgotten Xemnas’s command, and you’re certainly not stupid or suicidal enough to try and ignore it, even for just one more night.

“I believe I will join Lexaeus for dinner this evening,” you say with a calm you do not feel. You suspect that you won’t be able to eat much, given the way your stomach is roiling, but that’s not the point.

Saix’s head tilts just slightly. “A wise choice, Xiara,” he says.

You nod stiffly and leave, but you both know the truth: it wasn’t much of a choice at all.


End file.
